


Reflections

by coverofnight



Series: Break Me Down [8]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 14:30:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13102128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coverofnight/pseuds/coverofnight
Summary: In the absence of Vera, Joan sets her sights on Jodie Spiteri.





	1. One

I sit idly at the edge of my bed. _Our_ bed. The blackened night swallows me whole. Quietly, I wait. I wish. I whisper. _What have you done?_ I say it over and over. It is my mantra for the moment, my prayer to any being greater than myself. My eyes close, my body rocks back and forth. Little by little, I crumble. I fall upon my knees; I cry out in the dark.

Through tears there is a glimmer of light across the room. Moonlight trickles in through the blinds and settles on the mirror at our vanity. In it, I can see a strange and foreign version of myself. My posture is poor; my arms and legs appear thin and weak. I fold all my limbs in close and hug myself—it’s an act I haven’t needed or attempted to do since losing Jianna. My large and magnificent body, of which I am usually so proud, now seems small. Insignificant. Vera has made me so.

Hours pass and sleep does not come. My eyes are wide with horror, my heart pounds with fear. What might the daylight bring? I imagine that a plethora of accusatory looks will come my way, that Vera, in her anger and her fear, will not dare speak to me. Already, I can feel the ache of rejection in my chest. Already, I know the ceaseless pain of a former lover’s indifference.

In the morning, I cannot bear to look at myself. I slip into my uniform without much care for what those outside these walls might think. The drive to Wentworth is long, quiet. When the entrance of my prison comes into view, I do not feel my usual elation. I no longer feel that this great and massive edifice belongs to me. Vera, somehow, has managed to steal it away. Perhaps, this is what she felt as I lost myself in her last night.

I do not see my Vera anywhere in the lot, nor do I see her en route to my office. Instead, she calmly enters my chambers fifteen minutes after her usual arrival time. Not only does she insult me with her tardiness, but she also chooses not to expend an ounce of effort or pleasantry in greeting me.

“Governor,” is all she manages this morning and I feel a hole carve its way into my chest.

_So, this is how it’s going to be..._

When my eyes meet hers, those baby blues are lifeless. All of the expression I’ve grown accustomed to has gone from her eyes and in its place is what I know I deserve. Nothing.

My lips hesitate before I utter her name. I don’t want to seem overly emotional. I won’t be made desperate by her lack of regard for me this morning. So, I simply say, “Vera” in as neutral a tone as I can manage. But when she nods impatiently and expels a frustrated sigh, I feel tears sting at the back of my eyes.

For a moment, she seems taken aback by this, by my softening in front of her. Has she really not come to understand me in all the time we’ve spent together?

“Vera,” I say again quietly. It’s a small, childlike plea, one that I wish I had the gall to regret. But I don’t. Not now, not here. Not with her. “Vera, before we move forward with the day’s plans…” My eyes leave hers. I am not certain that I want to continue, but I must finish what I have started. “You know I’m not one to discuss personal matters at work. I would, however, appreciate a moment with you this evening to discuss what took place last night. If you’re up to it, of course.”

Vera takes a moment to process my request, then rolls her eyes as if my words are an inconvenience she cannot avoid. “Tonight, then. Seven. Your place.”

She sounds more like me than I think she realizes and I have to restrain the slightest bit of amusement. “Alright, then.”

 

*******

  
Seven o’clock comes and I am ready and waiting. A warm white pasta waits for lovers’ mouths to devour it. A bottle of pinot rests just beside it.

But Vera does not show at seven. Seven fifteen comes and goes, then half past the hour. I check my wristwatch more obsessively than usual and by ten to eight, I am sure Vera won't come.

As I tidy up the dining room, I hear a light knock at the door and then a key turn inside the lock. _It's her_.

Vera steps inside our home and gives me a genuine, apologetic look. “There was an accident on the way. Couldn't get to my phone to call you.”

I smile and shake my head no. “It doesn't matter. You're here now. You hungry?”

Vera smiles softly and nods. I can tell that some of her anger has subsided.

I watch Vera pick at her food. She seems to enjoy the bits that she does eat. I, on the other hand, am much too nervous to stomach anything.

After a glass or two of wine, I'm feeling anxious to get the conversation started but Vera is taking her sweet time joining me on the sofa. She waltzes around the place, poking and prodding various items. She's seen it all a thousand times before, so I surmise that she's as nervous as I. We both have a lot on our minds.

An eternity passes before Vera is ready to sit beside me. I tentatively place my hand upon her thigh. She flinches at the contact.

“I'm not ready for you to touch me,” she states matter-of-factly. The words sting.

“I understand.”

“You wanted to say something to me,” Vera starts. She raises her eyebrows as if to tell me to just get on with it already.

Being granted the opportunity to say anything at all makes my eyes water. I gulp down a cry and try to find the right words.

“Vera,” I begin. I want so much to hold her, to caress and to kiss her. But I respect her wishes and simply turn to face her. “I cannot make excuses for what happened last night. I can only apologize for how I must have made you feel.”

The words don't seem to move her. She stares blankly at me; her expression goes unchanged. When I can no longer resist the urge to touch her, I bring a gentle hand to her cheek. Her eyes well with tears and her lips tremble as she melts into my touch.

For a split second, she seems ready to let go, ready to forgive. Just as I Iet this thought cross my mind, she swiftly removes my hand.

“I can't do this. I can't allow you to hurt me and then let you back in,” she says as she stands.

My arm stretches out to grab her and I clasp my fingers around her wrist. “Please, Vera. Let me show you I can be different.”

The words pass my lips in a soft, gentle whisper that seems to resonate and she pauses, allowing me to stand, take her in my arms, and kiss her tear-stained cheek. As soon as my lips graze her soft flesh, she breaks free of my grip.

“Stop! Just stop it! I don't want this. I don't want you!”

The pain of her words is too great a burden for these broad shoulders to withstand for they’ve already carried too many loads in their time on this earth. I go weak at the knees as, once again, she turns to leave. I fall to them when I see that Vera tosses her key onto the floor just before prying the front door open.

My Vera gives me one last scornful look before she closes the door on our lives together. I am beside myself, a mess of tear and nerves, of sobs and regrets. Like so many before, I have hurt my Vera. I have taken her kindness, her softness, her innocence for granted. And in so doing, I have only hurt myself.


	2. Two

By morning, I am renewed; like a phoenix, I have risen. There is work to be done for Bea Smith returns to my beloved prison in just a few hour’s time. For all the control I have lost over my private life with Vera, I must show Smith what power truly looks like.

I waltz into my prison as if no care or worry burdens my shoulders. But then I feel an involuntary change in my gait as Vera comes into view. She stands, hands on hips and a scowl marring her face, as Miles delivers what I imagine to be unfortunate news. I want very much to go to her, to run a cool hand over her pale cheek. Instead, I keep my legs and my thoughts moving. Thanks to Smith’s lawlessness, my governorship is at stake and no passing tenderness for Vera will shake my spirit.

I must forge ahead. And as Smith defies my rules and tries to override my power, I show strength where anyone else would crumble. I make the decisions no one else could possibly make and, in Vera’s eyes, I see a reflection of the monster I truly am.

Each time I send a prisoner to her fate, my Vera flinches in my direction. Her blue eyes betray fear...of me and of the abhorrent acts of which I am capable. In her, I see the totality of who I am when I slot Smith and when I send Birdsworth back into general, all the while knowing full well what chaos these decisions will breed.

What my Vera underestimates is how powerful we two are—we two together. And I...I fail to calculate the risk to us both.

It happens quickly, so quickly that I cannot begin to fathom how sudden my fall from grace will be beyond this moment. Those teal-cladded animals defile my prison and my Vera in ways I lack the power to control.

As I watch Vera writhe in terror, all my will to fight momentarily leaves my body. Channing stands at my right side, silently urging me to cut a deal with these masked hoodlums who dare hurt my beautiful Vera.

And then I remember how strong, how utterly powerful Vera was in her rejection that night. I remember how sure she was that she did not want me, how my knees caved beneath me, how she shut the door on my hard-won love.

So, I resist. I suppress every urge to caress my lover’s pale, fear-stricken cheeks. I stifle every panicked cry I feel gathering at the back of my throat. I mentally quell the fire to fight in the pit of my stomach.

It is, perhaps, the most difficult thing I have ever done, but if I know my Vera, I know she has the strength to conquer her assailants. I am counting on it. Never does it occur to me that she might not escape the needle threatening her flesh or the greasy hands holding her down.

As I understand it, loving is akin to taking a leap of faith. If Vera believes I do not care for her, let my faith in this moment be a testament to how fervently I believe in her personhood. In her skill as my deputy. In her worthiness of being my partner in all this.

Lives can be profoundly changed in less than sixty seconds. That’s all it took for Vera to be stripped of the safety of my arms. Here and now, that’s all it takes for Channing to snatch authority from my very palms and hand it to the cowards on the CCTV.

Anger consumes me and on those screens, through the flickering of lights and shadows, I see myself. Veins protrude from my neck. My lips purse in restrained rage. But why? Why am I so angry that Channing has effectively saved Vera from herself and from these imbeciles that question our authority?

Later when Vera stands dazed and confused in the doorway of my office, I finally understand.

In all this time, she has gleaned nothing from the lessons I’ve bestowed upon her. She is a fraud. Her shows of strength are nothing more than a reproduction of what she believes I desire. None of what I know of Vera is the truth and the affection I had for her that night and all the months before seem to leave my body in an instant.

Much as I want it to be true, Vera alone cannot fill the void in me.


	3. Three

_Vera alone cannot fill the void in me._

I sit on this thought for weeks, waiting for the opportunity to explore it further. All the while, Vera and I move round each other like quiet, cautious animals. It's impossible to tell which of us is the mongoose and which of us is the cobra.

Nonetheless, Vera and I carry on, our usual stomping grounds now a war zone. One wrong step and we both risk disaster. So, I am cordial; I do my job and keep as much distance between us as can be managed. Sometimes, though, I watch her from the corner of my eye as she walks alongside me. When she lets her hand rest gently on the radio at her hip, I find myself suppressing a flutter of emotion in my chest.

Those tiny hips on that tiny frame. God, what I wouldn't do to put all my weight on her and shower her with every ounce of love I know I have.

And then I pinch myself because it is this very line of thinking that stole her away from me in the first place. It's times like these when I realize I will never be free of my afflictions—those dark desires that consume me at the most inopportune moments of my day.

It's those desires that compel me to commit strange and sinister acts…

Like tonight, when I trail a gloved hand  along each cell door of the slot, waiting for one of my young inmates to spread her legs and slip a warm hand between them to pass the time.

There's always one. I've been in this business long enough to know that time alone means that hands and minds wander. And I want to be there when a desirable body chooses to pleasure itself.

Tonight, it's Spiteri who writhes and whimpers and calls to me. I stand at her cell door and listen, and when it seems safe, I take a peek at her. She sits at the edge of her bed, her hand tucked into her pants as it works to release the tension of the past few days. An extended sentence at the hands of the Top Dog would cause any of these women to crack. Spiteri is already broken. Tonight, she thinks of Doyle and does what she can to heal her own wounds.

_I can do so much more for her._

For the briefest of moments, as I watch Spiteri penetrate herself under the hazy cover of night, she almost looks like Vera. Those tiny hips, that tiny frame. And just like that, I am on fire. In Spiteri's cell window, I see myself as Vera could never see me: raving mad and hellbent on getting every bit of pleasure I deserve. My brow is beaded in sweat, my upper lip tenses, my entire body tingles with desire.

I extract my handkerchief from my breast pocket to wipe my brow and turn around to go back to my office. Once there, I sit and wait for the roaring fire within me to die down.

_Self-control._

I remember once wanting to touch Vera here in this very office.

“Not here, never here,” Vera had said. She wanted to be professional, to keep our private lives private. I obeyed her. But there's something different about tonight.  

Tonight, Vera is not here; she has no hold over me and I've come to the realization that my desires exceed my love for her. There are things I need to do, instincts I need to follow, desires I need to satiate. And Jodie Spiteri is the perfect target.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to be honest and say that I was VERY hesitant to write this chapter. I put it off for nearly three months because there's a lot about the Jodie Spiteri storyline that irks me and I wasn't sure that I was equipped to tackle it. I did the best I could manage here given the arc I have planned for Joan in this series of fics. I hope it's somewhat satisfactory to anyone who reads it.

My time comes some nights later when Spiteri sleeps and I can open her cell door with relative quiet and ease. Upon my entrance, she stirs--flinches, really--and a chill trickles down my spine. Droplets of sweat gather over my brow as I hover over her. A pillow just at the edge of the bed offers the perfect solution to stave off a scream. In as gentle a manner as I can possibly manage, I place the pillow over her face and then bear down.

I want her to feel the weight of me, the weight of what this night means, and how heavy a burden her shoulders will be made to carry from this point forward. My secrets will be her secrets. My sinister aims will be hers to achieve. Bea Smith will feel the sting of these acts through Spiteri’s eager hands.

And Vera? What of Vera? Even if any of this Spiteri business mattered, my Vera will never know. She will never know the depths to which I have fallen or the acts I must orchestrate to get what she so stubbornly denies me.

No, my Vera will _never_ know.

In cuffs, I take Spiteri to the depths of the prison where no pair of eyes or ears can detect us. Down here, I can make her scream, cry, moan...and not a single living soul will hear.

But when I have her where I want her, I hesitate. I remind myself that two things must come of this: Smith must turn on Doyle and I must finally have my taste of the dark.

Spiteri sits, weak and frightened, before me as I pace to and fro. Her wide eyes follow me from one side of the room to the other and in them I see an innocence that I had not seen before. In the blink of an eye, I understand that this young woman has never dared go where I have gone. Never has she seen another woman writhe in both pleasure and pain; never has she been the instigator or receiver of such a delicious ache or burn as I am about to bestow upon her now.

So, I start slow, caressing her hair and face with my gloved hands. I slip a finger into her mouth, ask her to suck. Surely, she has done this before. But as she performs what I ask, she cries and I simply grin at this nauseating show of weakness.

“You're stronger than this, Spiteri. Aren't you?” I say. “Doyle has certainly done worse.”

Tears fall freely from Spiteri’s eyes as she shuts them tight and shakes her head. I extract my finger from her mouth to lift her chin.

“Look at me, Spiteri.”

She shakes her head with the vigor of an insolent child in the throes of a tantrum. Still, she does not open her eyes to look at me.

“You can't stand the sight of me, can you? You find me revolting. This uniform makes me so worthless in your eyes, you won't even give me the respect I deserve. Is that it?” I say. I want to stir her, move her, make her shake with uncertainty. So, I extract my baton--my beloved, beloved baton--from the shadows and trail its tip along her thigh.

Spiteri's eyes open wide with fear and I laugh a whole-hearted, guttural laugh. I trail the baton up her thigh, over her belly, around her breasts. All the while, my little prisoner trembles in absolute terror.

“Go on, say it. Tell me I'm revolting,” I urge her. She silently resists. “Say it. Say, ‘you're revolting’.” Still, she resists and I grow impatient. “Say it!” My voice is louder, more threatening than I intend but it produces the correct result.

“You're revolting.” Spiteri's voice is small, weak.

“Now say that I'm worthless.”

She cries, clenches her jaw. She fears the consequences of uttering these words. “Y-y-you’re worthless.”

I nod. My baton comes to a hard stop between her legs. “Pointless.”

“You're...pointless,” she says through clenched teeth.

The baton edges closer and closer to her center. My mind envisions how slick it must be by now. If my observations have taught my anything, it's that Spiteri loves to be controlled.

I bite my lip. “Tell me I'm nothing.”

“You're nothing.” There's anger and contempt in these words. Spiteri clearly doesn't know she’ll be singing my praises in just a few minutes.

“Good. Now, touch yourself, Spiteri.”

“What?! No! No, you stay the fuck away,” she protests. She and I both know she can hardly resist the call of that liquid lust between her legs.

“Touch yourself or my baton will do it for you.”

After a moment of hesitation, she slips a wavering hand into her pants and begrudgingly begins what I can only refer to as God's work...only, I am her God and she answers to me.

I watch her for just a second and in that short amount of time, I can see her eyes gloss over from pleasure. _I've hooked her._

“Now, tell me again that I'm worthless, pointless, nothing. That's what you think, isn't it? Tell me what I deserve to hear.”

_It's what Vera would have wanted, what Vera thinks I deserve._

“You're worthless, you're pointless, you're nothing,” she says. It's a chant, a mantra, one I've been telling myself since Vera left me cold in the night.

“‘No one misses you.’ Say it, Spiteri. ‘No one misses you, no one cares.’”

By now, Spiteri's wandering hand has found a pleasurable rhythm. “No one misses you,” she says, pausing momentarily to expel a moan. “No one cares.”

“Keep going,” I say. I find a spot against  the wall to rest and I, too, slip a wayward hand between my legs. Spiteri watches me--shocked, aroused, disgusted--but she never stops chanting that mantra or pleasuring herself. In this moment, we're the same. We connect. I get my taste. She'll be punished for my sins.

When all is said and done, Spiteri throws her head back. Tears stain her cheeks. She's ashamed by this gross, banal display--not mine. Hers. She can't stand herself and now she won't be able to get those words out of her head.

_You're worthless, you're pointless, you're nothing. No one misses you. No one cares._

It's as true for her right now as it is for me and so she punishes herself for what she's allowed to happen. As I zip up my pants and watch Spiteri’s self-hatred consume her, I know I've got her just where I want her.

Our dirty little secret has opened a door between us. There's no closing it now.

I step up to her, sensing her fear. She cowers before me as if I might go on the attack.

She's only half right.

“You enjoyed that, hm?” I smirk.

She nods weakly and I want to laugh. Instead, I bring my right hand all the way around and aim right for her face. She cries out in pain, as she should.

“You're disgusting. Ugly. Foul. How can you stand yourself, Spiteri? How can you sit there and think you're anything more than a vile, loathsome lump of flesh?”

Her bottom lips trembles. Her eyes fill with tears. “I-I-I don't! I don't think I'm more than…”

“That's right...because you're _nothing.”_  

It goes on. And on. And on. For weeks. Until I'm satisfied that Spiteri will try to redeem herself by knifing Smith. Until I feel the weight of my sins lifted off my shoulders. What I don't anticipate is how Spiteri clings to me after we're both spent or how much she disdains me when I administer the first slap of the night. As if I'm her mirror image. It's everything I could want and it's as close to a perfect version of Vera as I will ever get.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say thank you for all the comments on this work and any others you may have commented on. As I'm sure you know by now, I'm terrible at responding--I'm always at a loss for what to say. So, please accept this blanket 'thank you' as a token of my appreciation for all your lovely feedback. :)

It’s days like today, when I find myself approaching Mr. Fletcher, that I know I need to rest. Mr. Fletcher sits at a small table, hands trembling, and lungs gasping in frustration as his spoon hits the floor. I watch him carefully as he retrieves it, waiting for a lapse in his performance, but it does not come.

Seeing him now, barely alive but alive enough to tell the truth, I feel the weight of my sins heavy on my shoulders. It forces me to greet him, to fetch him another coffee, to sit beside him. I don’t do these things to assuage my guilt. No, I do them to ensure that it never rises to the surface.

In truth, I am tired. Tired of trying so hard to keep my truth at bay. Tired of waiting and wishing for Vera to come home. Tired of continuing this life without love. To live without love is to live without honor. These days, my reflection is a mere shadow of my former self. In its place are shades of Vera, of Smith, of Fletcher, of Spiteri. Something in me is at a boiling point. I am not me if I am without Vera.

Perhaps this time things have gone too far.  

I'm not usually one to admit how frequently the perils of this life get under my skin. I'd rather detach myself from the stress and from situations that do not move me forward. But as Vera is so far away from me at present, I must find other ways to juggle everything that consumes my energy.

Spinning webs as I have done is not so easy as it seems. Lies shield other lies. Events and encounters are orchestrated to achieve an ultimate goal. There are times when I lose sight of what that is. Why am I here? What do I seek to gain from my time at Wentworth? I hardly know anymore. It used to be that my presence here was a means to an end, that I'd avenge my sweet Jianna no matter the cost.  
  
Vera only got in the way.

Now, I must maintain the status quo. But even something as simple as that seems impossible. See, when you're caught in the very web you've so masterfully spun, a void begins to spread deep within. Call it guilt. Call it regret. Call it whichever name you might ascribe to it. It is a void, nonetheless.

I feel it widen each time Vera looks to me for professional validation. The hollow of it aches when Mr. Jackson seeks my support. That void ices over when Nurse Atkins smiles at me from across the corridor. I am not the person they think I am. I am not a caring mentor or a protector of officers; nor am I the kind of woman one gifts with a smile.

_I'm worthless. I'm pointless. I'm nothing..._

So, I tell Vera she’s done good work even when I don't really care to mean it. I assure Mr. Jackson that I have his back amidst an intensifying murder investigation. And I spare a tight-lipped smile for that pretty little nurse because...well, what more is there to do?

My plans are in full swing. But plans are not dreams and dreams, I have learned, rarely come to pass for people like me.  

It is possible, I suppose, that my current state is due to losing Spiteri so soon. Now that she’s returned to general population and ready to deliver a blow to Smith, I’ve no further reason to see her. But that doesn’t mean her absence from my nightly routine stings any less.

On those nights, after all that nastiness was said and done, I'd take Spiteri into my arms and ease her pain. I'd caress her, kiss her, tend her wounds. And in exchange, I could blur my vision just a little and pretend that she was Vera. She was the Vera that obeyed, that let me do as I pleased, that let me hurt her in all the right ways, and comfort her in even better ones. She was the Vera that forgave me.

Sometimes, she'd take hold of me. She'd bring a soft hand to my shoulder or gently grip my wrist. It’s comforting to think she found a way to enjoy me even after all that I forced her to endure. But you know as well as I that simply isn’t true.

She was just so pliable, so perfect for what I needed to do. Now that it's over, there are still times when I wish I could go to her again. Like today, when I discover that my Vera allowed Mr. Fletcher to come between us.

News of the betrayal comes from Mr. Fletcher himself and as I sit across from him, I think of Spiteri. Even she had a stronger will than Vera.

“Vera comes to see me,” he says.

The words are like a knife to the back. And so, I think of Spiteri to ease the ache of this pain because Spiteri never lied. When she hated me for my violence, she did so openly. And when she loved me for my affection, she did the same. She was transparent in her feelings and never were the lines blurred between us. We both knew the score. We walked away more broken down, more raw and real than when we started. That was the deal.

But Vera? The Vera of present looks at me with a mix of anger and amusement. She seeks to one-up me, to show me how easily she can stand on her own two feet. So, she makes grand gestures and even grander assumptions to ensure I notice how fiercely she covets my position as Governor. I recognize it as my duty to cut her down a few notches, to let her know that I’m aware of her betrayal.

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” she says. A glint in her eye tells me that there is very little remorse to accompany these words.

I am hurt, deeply so, because Vera has given Mr. Fletcher what I so desperately want from her: a second chance.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update has been a long time coming. I have no idea if anyone is still interested in reading this. All I know is that I'm ready to continue (and eventually finish) it. After months of not looking at this fic, I feel like my Wentworth/Joan Ferguson fic writing skills are a little rusty. Hopefully it reads well.

Mr. Fletcher’s presence at the prison gets so deep under my skin I scarcely have the ability to control my temper. His feet drag. His hands tremble. His mouth seems perpetually full of marbles. All to my utter irritation. I can hardly stand the sight of him. More than that, I can’t stand his place between me and Vera.

Vera caters to him, aids him when she thinks I'm not looking. I am always looking; she seems to have forgotten that fact.

How quickly past lovers allow old memories to escape them. How strange that some can even forget there was any passionate love in the first place. My Vera is among these; I am not.

I cannot possibly forget the light in her eyes when I touched her, nor can I lose sight of what I felt deep within when she held me.

Now, I presume, she holds Mr. Fletcher when I or a prisoner delivers a blow to his ego. I imagine she caresses him, kisses him, loves him even when he doesn't love her in return. Above all, she aims to protect him from me. From my wrath. From my sickness. From my darkness.

She likely sees it as her duty to stand between me and Mr. Fletcher. It makes sense. Of all the people I have ever known, it is Vera who knows me best. She knows every part of me, every lowly act of which I am capable, every hope and dream and fear I harbor inside of me. And so, it should come as no surprise to her that her daily betrayals cause a physical ache I can't seem to eradicate.

In her devotion to Mr. Fletcher, my Vera no longer stands to protect me and I can hardly bear the weight of that realization. So, I retreat into my memories of Jodie Spiteri. They carry me through my day’s work -- my morning routine, my drive to Wentworth, my check-in with Mr. Fletcher at the prison’s main entrance.

Not willing to crumble under the reality of Vera's constant betrayal, I let Spiteri take over. She cries for me. She aches for me. She speaks for me.

_You're worthless. You're pointless. You're nothing. No one misses you. No one cares._

It's her words that forge my path ahead through Wentworth’s long halls, past Mr. Jackson, and toward the offices. My eye catches the sight of an officer and immediately I know there’s trouble.

Spiteri. The ombudsman. Smith. Channing. They're all against me, I can feel it. Spiteri’s betrayal smells more like fear than the others and that, I suppose, is something I'll have to live with. Smith, on the other hand, is out for blood. Doyle may be my only hope at keeping my name intact.

But when even she fails me, it is my Vera who ultimately comes to my rescue.

“I wanted to wish you luck,” she says to me on my way into Spiteri’s hearing. She puts a hand on my arm, leans in close, and whispers, “Though I don't think you'll need it.”

When Vera pulls away, a familiar glint in her eye puts me ill at ease. Does she, indeed, wish me luck or is this code for something else? With all that's happened, it's impossible to know for sure anymore. She seems a world away from the sweet and innocent Vera I once knew. Now, her face betrays a wisdom she didn't seem to have when I used to hold her close. Back then, she was naive. Still learning. It seems that now she seeks to teach me a few new tricks.

What more could there possibly be to learn? Was it not I who wrote the book?

My lesson comes when Smith does not turn up at the hearing. I charge Vera with the task of fetching the prisoner and when she returns shortly after, Spiteri’s insecurity has already cleared me of her accusations. I watch Vera cross the room to me. Her body looks strong, confident. Her expression does, too. She leans in close, her body nearly touching mine, and whispers the sweetest words into my ear.

“Smith has been taken care of.”

And my mouth nearly falls open because my Vera has stepped up. She has made herself complicit in my crimes. She’s taken the necessary actions to make us both whole again.

In Spiteri’s teary, devastated eyes, I see reflections of what Vera and I used to be, of what we can once again become. It is, unfortunately, a moment I cannot savor too long. There's still work to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nearly 3 am, so please excuse any weird typos. :)


	7. Seven

Vera and I don't talk about it. We simply sit with the secret knowledge that we have each other’s backs. The only hitch is that she seems to have the backs of Ms. Westfall and Mr. Fletcher, too. That is a betrayal in and of itself. 

I watch Vera flutter like a nervous moth around Westfall. All in one breath, one word, one look, Vera seems to tell me that she’s teetering on the edge of selling me out. Even still, she draws me nearer to her as Westfall spins her own enticing web. 

When Westfall speaks of Bea Smith, she does so with a self-righteousness that seems to have rubbed off on Vera. Westfall, no doubt, sullies my name to Vera’s ears, makes her question her restored loyalty to me, and forces Vera’s hand when she herself is in no position to risk her own good name. 

Westfall is poison. She spits venom and fire at every turn and is the only person in proximity who dares to question me. Even Mr. Fletcher has turned his insolence down a few notches. Westfall more than makes up for it. She defies me quite openly, as if there’s something deep within me she seeks to expose. Really, it is she who harbors secrets. And, unexpectedly, it is my Vera who bares them all to me.

“It's just gossip. I don’t have any proof, but we should keep an eye on them,” Vera says of Westfall's apparent dalliance with Doyle. It's a delicious piece of news, one I lap up and savor and tuck into my back pocket for when the timing is just right. Perhaps more appetizing than Westfall's indiscretion is that it is Vera who deems herself fit to stand at my right hand again, but she hasn't once specified the reason for her change of heart.

With her, I must tread carefully. There's so much potential to be hurt, crippled by love and hope and fear. To become a more tragic, less redeemable version of Mr. Fletcher. That, I can tell you with absolute certainty, is something I do not want. I'd rather go out fighting than be buried under the weight of my love for another. Not again. 

No, I want to rise up, reach my fullest height, and show Vera that I can match her resolve. I failed to do it last time around, but now that her step seems in line with mine, I can do anything. 

Despite all this, there is always fear in the fleeting glances that pass between us. We both have our reservations. Unlike before, when she and I knew the depths of each other’s hearts, it’s impossible to understand the Vera of here and now. At one moment, she seems to be testing me, waiting for me to slip up. At the next, wanting to show me how devoted she is to our joint cause. How I wish I knew what lay beneath her exterior. 

It doesn't quite click that she's doing to me what I am known to do: hold my cards close, manipulate my chosen pawns, and show my hand only when I know I've won. But what game might Vera be playing at here? What must I do to earn her trust more fully?

A brown-eyed beauty with a wavy mane and protruding round belly is the resolution. In her, there’s light and love and all the things I knew before the walls of Wentworth started to close in on me. I send Vera to fetch her and hope that what I do out of the genuine goodness of my blackened heart proves I am more than a two-dimensional comic book villain. 

I wait. The calm settles. Darkness looms. From the shadows I spot Anderson enter the kitchen, then Vera. My eye watches Vera leave, though I wish she wouldn’t. When I finally beckon Anderson to me, I see Vera peek an eye through the window in the door. I do what I can to not make this a performance. It has to be real. 

“For real?” Anderson’s eyes clock the ice cream I’ve pushed her way, then look up at me in surprise. I suspect Vera’s do, too. 

“For real,” I say. It is real. As real and honest a gesture as I can manage for a woman who bridges the gap between a past love and a present one. 

After Anderson, I sense a change in the way Vera looks at me. Her eyes are softer, her voice kinder, her words less accusatory. It is time to settle this once and for all.

“Dinner. Tonight. My house,” I command. My hand finds my little black appointment book before I even know what I'm asking of the woman before me. Vera’s expression is blank, disappointing. I falter. “What? You have other plans?”

“Well, yes. We all do, unless you're not coming,” Vera says, reminding me that tonight is our annual gathering with the board. I purse my lips, nod understanding, and close my little black book where I've already scribbled Vera’s name. 

“Right. Well, some other time then. I’ll see you tonight.”

Vera takes her leave and I release the tension from my shoulders. 

A fish tank sits across the room and, in it, a goldfish swims as free as its boundaries will let it. The fish glimmers and glows when it catches the light. And in its surrounding waters, I catch a glimpse of myself. Strong. Powerful. But never enough of those things to be ready for what’s to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why they would ever have an annual dinner with the board but just roll with it. Please and thank you. :)


End file.
